Sorry in Your Own Way
by ice-woman
Summary: He watches her vigorously, her eyes cemented to his, but neither reacts, they just keep staring, waiting for the other to call this ridiculous game quits. // lexie/mark; one-shot post: perfect little accident rated T for language.


sorry in your own way  
lexie/mark - post "perfect little accident"  
one-shot; rated T for language.

* * *

The sigh is sitting on her lips as she knocks again, _for the third time_, on Cristina's door, her forehead slamming against the wood in desperation. She's tired and she's frustrated and Meredith isn't answering her phone. This is exactly the type of scenario she used to run into with Molly; her little sister would turn to her for help, then be nowhere to be found when Lexie arrived. The scenario's so deja vu that it almost makes Lexie laugh.

_Almost_.

Because she's calling Meredith's name and pounding on the door, and she's beginning to get the feeling that there's no one inside. Exasperated, she turns, eyes rolling dramatically, to find Owen and Derek coming out of Mark's apartment, an obvious makeshift boys' night thrown together in the wake of Arizona and her shitty excuse for a girls' night out. (She is not bitter that she was not invited. She would have hated it anyway, or so she keeps telling herself.)

"Lexie," Derek says calmly, biting back his surprise. She refuses to look at Mark, because it's 2am and she's in sweat pants and a tee shirt that may or may not belong to him (she won't look down to double check) and she's quite certain there's a coffee stain on the hoodie hanging loosely over her arms. She doesn't even dare to think of how her hair must look. She instead tries to look dignified in an awkward situation.

"Meredith called," she explains quickly. "Wanted me to pick her up. Something about tequila and shots and I don't know."

Owen nods and unlocks the door to his apartment. He flicks the light switch on to reveal several women sprawled out around the living room, two bottles of Patrone and one bottle of Cabarnet on the coffee table.

Lexie spots her sister on the couch, snoring softly.

Derek laughs. "I'll get her," he promises, shaking his head knowingly at Lexie as they exchange smiles, and in a matter of seconds, Owen and Derek disappear, door shutting behind them and she's suddenly all too aware of Mark and his open door, the significance of which she can't quite grasp.

She spins around, because she's going to _have to_ at some point and Mark's looking _around_ her, not at her, and he's doing a good impersonation of himself. He's drunk, really drunk, his large hands gripping the doorframe as if his life depends on it (and it very well may) but he isn't turning around and she's frozen to her spot in the hallway.

"I think I'm wearing your shirt," she says stupidly, because when in doubt she rambles, a nervous condition that always escalates whenever he's within her proximity. Feeling ridiculous, she looks down nervously, praying that her feet remember how to walk away from him, the way they've done so many times before.

He half-chuckles, his amusement apparent, and this is only because he's drunk, she tells herself. Sober Mark would slam the door in her face, hoping at the very least, the impact knocked her over on her ass.

"Give it back," he finally decides on and her eyes widen as her mind reels, surveying every possible implication of his words.

"What?" she stutters, shock winning over nerves as she finally rests her gaze back on his.

"My shirt," he says simply. "You just said it's not yours, it's mine. So give it back."

She's feeling like the target of a practical joke and she's not quite sure how to react. Fingers rubbing against the bottom edges of the tee shirt, she tries again, somehow managing to still meet his eye.

"Fine," she remarks. "I'll bring it to work tomorrow."

He shakes his head firmly. "I'm off. And I really need it." There's a harshness in his voice, but she can't put her finger on why it's there. This is a dare, she realizes, and she's not sure on which decision will place her in a better light.

"Well?" he asks, looking more amused than angry, and suddenly _she's _livid, because she can't get at what game he's playing and she's sick and tired of feeling like the only guilty one.

"Take it," she snaps, shrugging out of her hoodie, the fleece falling lightly to the floor. He watches her vigorously, her eyes cemented to his, but neither reacts, they just keep _staring_, waiting for the other to call this ridiculous game quits.

A moment later she wrestles her way out of the oversized tee shirt, her upper body covered only by a lacy black bra that she's now undeniably grateful for (so what if she put it on for Karev this morning?) and she tosses the heap of cotton at Mark fiercely, eyes igniting as he grins wickedly.

"I didn't think you'd do it," he admits, as if he's proud of her.

She mutters under her breath and it sounds like _fuck you_ but not quite. She bends down slowly to pick up her hoodie, not rushing the moment. She won't go slinking out of here like a goddamn schoolgirl. There's nothing to be embarrassed about.

Lexie wrenches her arms into the hoodie, making sure to take her time. When Mark's fingers call her forward she obliges, though her head is screaming for her to run.

His fingers grasp the bottom zipper of her sweatshirt as the door behind her opens up, Meredith's voice partaking in a rather half-hearted version of _Eternal Flame_ as Cristina chimes in behind her. Lexie's eyes widen nervously, grateful her back is turned to them, but Mark seems relatively unfazed by the people appearing behind her.

He takes his time, one finger on the inside of the hoodie and one on the outside, taking care to let his knuckle glide up her skin as he zips her, eyes following the motion of the zipper, pausing just barely as he comes to her breasts, her breathing speeding up, all of her frenzy all too apparent to Mark.

Derek and Meredith leave without saying a word (thank god for that) and Mark's hand's still half in her shirt, resting just beneath her collarbone, and all she can hear is the sound of her heart beating wildly, threatening to fly through her chest.

"I still hate you," he says softly, as he cups her cheek and she's pushing back tears, telling herself that the new Lexie Grey doesn't fall to pieces just because Mark Sloan is squeezing her heart in his fist.

"I hate you too," she admits her eyes trailing off of him, ending whatever weird moment this had been, his hand falling off of her shirt and back to his side.

(It's eerie almost, these secret admissions, reminding her all too clearly of the three little words they never spoke, but she's certain they both felt.)

Then his eyes turn dark again and she holds her breath, bracing for the storm. He mutters something that sounds like _go fuck Karev_ and she doesn't wince, because he's fucking every female in the hospital and she refuses to let herself feel bad for whatever she's doing with Alex. They're both the same, she wants to tell him, but she can't because the time for listening has passed.

The walk outside is like a dream to her, each step feeling surreal and uncertain, until at last she stumbles into her car, collapsing onto the steering wheel, her sobs sounding out the lame pop song on her radio.

When she swears the blinds move in his apartment, she doesn't let herself determine whether she's seeing things or not. Instead she forces her foot to hit the gas pedal and drives away without looking back.

* * *

It's a week later when they run into each other again, her hands hurrying to pull up her greasy hair, sweat forming along the back of her neck, all signs of her 72 hour shift kicking her ass. His hands are on her locker when she walks in, freezing in place as her feet are now prone to do.

"You left some stuff at my house," he explains slowly. "Figured I'd return them."

"Oh," she says, wondering vaguely if he's been bringing girls over. He'd left her stuff untouched for so long. She wonder's what's changed. To be honest, she doesn't want to know.

"Yeah, so," he mutters, shutting her locker door and brushing past her hurriedly.

"Mark?" she asks loudly, turning towards him, her fingers tapping lightly against her thighs. "I...can I ask you something?"

He almost looks guilty as he nods, as if he's standing trial for some sin she's yet to hear of.

She chooses her words wisely, because she knows she may never get this opportunity again.

"I loved you, you know," she begins awkwardly.

His lips part slowly, taking in the full meaning of her words. "I didn't," he admits and it's not cruel. For once, he isn't dismissing her. "When did you stop?" he asks, because it's true, she played it safe and used the past tense and now she can't take it back.

She shrugs at the white lie, because she's too terrified to tell him the truth. "I don't know," she mutters. "I guess when I heard you wanted to stay in LA."

He doesn't ask how she heard or who she heard it from, which just confirms any lingering doubts she may have had.

"I didn't mean to..." he begins.

She shakes her head. "No, I _get it_," she promises, looking downward.

He falls silent for a few seconds. "So, what is it?" he asks.

She looks up slowly. "What is what?"

"Your question? You said you had a question."

He looks at her like he knows what she's pleading him to tell her. He's glaring at her, waiting for her to force it out of him. The satisfaction she thought might come from hearing it doesn't seem as monumental or important as it used to.

She shakes her head, because when she looks at him all she can see is Addison. She wonders if it's the same when he looks at her. She rather hates Alex herself right now.

"It doesn't matter," she remarks, because why should it? She lied and said she didn't love him anymore, choosing those precise words to break the news that she had, in fact, fallen in love with him in the first place. What would hearing him say these words back to her mean at this point? What good could come of it?

She pushes past him, eyeing the door frantically. As her fingers reach for the doorknob she feels his body behind her, his head just inches over her shoulder. Paralyzed, she waits for him to do whatever it is he's set out to do, because god knows she's unable to resist him.

He knows this too.

"The answer would have been yes," he says quietly, his breath tickling her ear. He reaches around her and turns the doorknob, slipping out of the locker room, his eyes watching her silently.

"Oh," she manages, trying to process the admission. "_Oh_," she repeats.

"But it's like you said," he remarks bluntly. "It doesn't matter now."

This time the door does slam shut in her face and she hates just how wrong she is.

* * *

There's too much blood.

Her gloved hands are drenched and Meredith's yelling something, all calm and composed, and she's seeing red everywhere. Bailey's pushing past her to assist Meredith and all she can smell is death.

Her eyes meet Alex's slowly and he nods to indicate that her fears are correct, they lost the little girl on the surgical table, and she's wondering how many people standing in the room know that her name is Molly (same as her sister) and her favorite color is neon green and that she wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up.

Lexie steps backwards, stunned, because of course, this little girl will never grow up or wear bright green again, because she's dead and lifeless on the surgical table, and it's astonishing how much someone who's legally dead can still bleed.

She's not sure who leads her out of the OR, but she knows it's _not_ Meredith because her sister's voice is piercing her ears and all she can do is stare. She watches as Derek appears from thin air (he does that a lot) to lead Meredith out of the room, because after all this was _her_ surgery and she's shouldering all the guilt. Bailey looks at her sadly and Alex, well she's lost sight of him, or maybe he's the person yanking on her arm, and prying her from the dead girl's body.

"She looks _so _much like her," she mutters, still staring at the girl (not corpse, she won't call her a corpse). "She even talked like her."

"I know," the person behind her says, even though they have no idea what she's talking about. She's aware she must sound crazy.

She lets Mark lead her to the sink (she hasn't turned to face him, but she _knows_ it's him) and he helps her wash her hands, while her eyes stay glued to the little girl on the surgical table.

"She even has the same name," she replies, still rambling. "Molly."

His fingers pause on her wrists. "Your sister," he remembers.

She nods. "She looks just like she used to."

"That little girl isn't your sister," he says firmly.

"I know," she replies, because her sister is twenty three years old with a four year old baby girl and of course that eleven year old on the table is not her sister.

Mark continues to scrub her hands with his fingers, and the blood's still everywhere.

"It made me think," she continues. "About Sloane and her baby." She turns around, her face inches from his. "How is she?" She doesn't mention what she knows, doesn't tell him she's overheard Callie telling Derek about the letters Sloane sometimes writes or the phone conversations they attempt to exchange.

"She gave the baby up for adoption," he tells her, like she should know these things, and she does, but she hasn't heard them from him. She feels slightly guilty for not bringing this up sooner, but she knows she's lost that right, and even know she shouldn't be talking about things that have nothing to do with her anymore.

But she still smells the blood and she has to talk to keep herself from fainting.

"Is she happy?" she asks slowly, turning back towards the sink. Mark's hands are still on hers and the blood's beginning to disappear.

She can feel his sigh on the back of her neck. "She says she is. I mean, I think she's okay now."

Lexie nods. "That's good. That's really good."

It's ironic, she thinks, that this girl came into their world and ripped them apart, leaving disaster and emptiness in her wake. It's good that Sloane's happy, because she's Mark's daughter and Lexie _wants_ her to be happy. It's good that the baby's fine, she thinks, and it's good that Mark can mention them without breaking down or shutting her out. They're the ones who aren't good, the victims so to speak, but none of this matters right now, because there's a dead little girl in their view, lying abandoned on a surgical table.

"Thank you," she says as he turns the water off, still pressed up against the back of her body. "I usually don't...this usually doesn't...."

"It's okay," he remarks, hands running across her shoulders reassuringly.

She doesn't question him as he leads her out of the wash room, and she realizes that if it weren't for him, she'd still be inside, staring numbly, and she's never been so grateful for the sight of florescent lighting and the rustle and bustle of scrubbed men and women.

Meredith's eyes are red and swollen and she assumes she's talked to the little girl's family, because Derek's hand is around her waist and he kisses her forehead softly, and Meredith being Meredith, shrugs him off, unaware of how lucky she is.

Lexie's eyes meet hers slowly. They're a lot a like, always taking the people they care about the most for granted.

"You okay?" Meredith asks as Derek leaves her side and Lexie winces, expecting Mark to leave her here, something she's just not ready for yet. She waits, but the pressure on her arm never vanishes.

"She'll be fine," Mark insists and Lexie almost cries as he leads her into the nearest on-call room, her head still spinning.

"You okay?" He's asking this time as she curls into a ball on the bed, her back towards him as she shakes her head fiercely, because she's very much _not_ okay. She's falling and crumbling and breaking and stumbling and it never gets any better. She's not _broken_, she's still breaking and she can't stop or end it, or even begin to piece herself back together. She's not even sure she can have this conversation with him, but here he is, a fact she still can't fully take in, and she's terrified that any second now, he's going to disappear.

"Don't," she pleads, grasping for the end of his lab coat as he stands up. She's like a child, begging him to console her, because god knows she can't be alone right now, and the thought of anyone else in his place terrifies her.

"I have a surgery," he explains, kneeling down on the floor until he's eye level with her. He strokes her hair carefully, her eyes still wide and desperate. He slides his hand down her arm, thumb rubbing her palm reassuringly. "I'll be back," he promises. "I'll take you home."

She doesn't remember falling asleep.

* * *

For the first ten minutes, she swears she's dreaming.

Here's what she knows:

Mark comes back for her and wakes her up, helping her to her feet, his arm slipping around her shoulders, her cheek pressed against his side, her mind swearing she's making this all up.

He leads her through the hospital, her eyes locking occasionally with people she knows. Derek nods and smiles sympathetically, Bailey looks away, giving her privacy, and the red-headed nurse she knows Mark slept with a few days before, stares on, Lexie taking a slight satisfaction in knowing that Mark would never do this for her.

She spots Alex as they near the elevator. He's leaning across the nurse's counter, chart in hand, and his conversation with the two blonde nurses breaks as he notices her, his eyes lingering a bit longer than she expects. She doesn't quite recognize the look in his eyes, but she also doesn't let herself think too much into it.

She can still feel his eyes burning on her back as Mark helps her into the elevator.

"I feel stupid," she admits in the privacy of the elevator.

"It's okay," he insists and she bites her lip.

* * *

"You're too thin," he says in the car. "Don't tell me you think you're fat or something crazy like that."

She shakes her head. "No," she answers. "Well, maybe. I don't know." She can't remember, because she's too concentrated on figuring out if this is real or not.

"Why aren't you eating?" he asks, taking a stab at the problem.

She blinks up at him, stunned by the question. "I haven't really been paying that much attention." It's a ridiculous answer, illogical and irrational, but it's true, and he must realize this, because he doesn't say anything back.

When he starts driving away from Meredith' house, she remains confused for a few blocks, wondering where on earth he's stopping at before taking her home.

They're at a red light when it dawns on her and she's smiling stupidly, the urge to burst into tears is overwhelming.

"I'm so sorry," she remarks, because she's not sure if she's said this yet, or if she can say it enough, or even what it will mean to him.

"It's okay," he says for the third time that day.

She sucks in her breath, because she's still bracing for the moment when she wakes up and the dream fizzles into a reality where she'll wake up next to Alex, the tequila bottle on the night stand the only comfort in the room.

"Me too," he says after a few minutes, his voice low and raspy. "For making you feel like you didn't matter."

She's crying now, because _he gets it_, and she's not crazy, and if it's a dream she swears she'll scream when she wakes up, because right now, she'd rather live in this blissful ignorance than go back to the cold room where she wakes up alone, even when she's next to Alex Karev, in a house that her sister merely lets her stay in.

"I never...I never meant...." he starts again.

"_I know_," she assures him, smiling through her tears, eyes scanning his face as he turns right at the intersection. "Where are we going?" she asks, because she needs to hear the words on his lips.

He half-smiles as she feels the car slow to make the left into an all too familiar parking lot. As he parks, he turns to her expectantly, his hands lost in her hair again.

"I told you I was bringing you home," he reminds her.

She wants to ask what took him so long, but Lexie Grey's learned a thing or two in the past few months about when to keep her mouth shut.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
